Then he used the portable compressor.
The tire slowly inflated.
Henry watched the pressure gauge.
"Easy."
Mike crouched beside him.
"You know what you're doing."
"I've been doing it longer than you've been alive."
Mike smiled.
"Probably."
When the tire was finally firm, Henry lowered the motorcycle.
He kicked the tire gently.
"Temporary repair."
"How far?"
"Carson City if you don't push it."
Mike nodded.
"Under sixty."
"Exactly."
Mike reached into his vest.
He pulled out a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills.
Henry stared.
"What?"
"What do I owe you?"
"Nothing."
Mike frowned.
Henry waved his hand.
"Put it away."
"I don't like owing favors."
"I don't like taking money for doing what's right."
Mike held out the cash.
Henry refused again.
"Buy your brothers a meal."
Mike's eyes narrowed.
"You sure?"
"Very."
Mike slowly put the money away.
Then he extended his hand.
Henry looked at it.
The biker's hand was enormous.
Henry's was old, scarred, and thin.
They shook.
Mike held on for a moment.
"I don't forget faces."
Henry nodded.
"Neither do I."
"The club doesn't forget favors."
Henry smiled.
"Then tell them an old mechanic fixed your tire."
Mike mounted the Harley.
The engine exploded to life.
The roar echoed across the desert.
Henry stepped back.
Mike looked down at him.
"What's your name?"
"Henry."
"Henry Mitchell?"
Henry froze.
"How'd you—"
Mike pointed toward the toolbox.
Henry's name was engraved on the metal lid.
Mike smiled.
"See you around, Henry."
Then he disappeared down the highway.
Henry stood beside his truck watching the dust settle.
He shook his head.
"Strangest damn thing I've done all week."
He had no idea that the next morning would be stranger.
Much stranger.
Eighty Harleys
The next morning, Maplewood Avenue was peaceful.
It was the kind of street Henry had lived on for twenty-seven years.
Children rode bicycles.
Retired couples watered lawns.
Someone always complained about somebody else's trash cans.
At nine o'clock, Henry sat on his porch drinking black coffee.
He was reading the newspaper when he felt something.
A vibration.
Very faint.
The coffee in his cup trembled.
Henry lowered the newspaper.
He looked toward the street.
The vibration grew stronger.
Then came the sound.
One motorcycle.
Then another.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
Henry slowly stood.
The noise became enormous.
It rolled down the street like distant thunder.
Then the first Harley turned the corner.
Henry's mouth fell open.
Iron Mike.
Behind him came another motorcycle.
Then another.
And another.
Soon the entire street was filled with black leather, chrome, helmets, denim, and roaring engines.
Henry counted.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
He stopped counting around fifty.
There were at least eighty.
Neighbors disappeared behind curtains.
Someone dropped a garden hose.
A garage door slammed shut.
Henry's heart began beating hard.
"What the hell?"
The motorcycles stopped.
Not randomly.
They stopped in formation.
Mike climbed off his Harley.
He removed his sunglasses.
Then he looked directly at Henry.
Henry walked down the porch steps.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Mike smiled.
"No."
Henry glanced behind him.
"Why are there eighty motorcycles outside my house?"
Mike gestured toward the group.
"My brothers wanted to meet you."
Henry stared.
"All eighty?"
Mike nodded.
"They heard what happened."
Henry sighed.
"I fixed a tire."
"You helped one of us."
"That's not exactly a heroic act."
Mike's expression changed.
"It was to him."
A second man stepped forward.
He was older than Mike, perhaps in his late sixties.
His leather vest carried a large patch.
He approached Henry slowly.